


Life's What You Make It

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: sexy_right, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:12:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1347025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bunch of dweebs sitting around a table pretending to be knights and warriors. He IS the Warlock. He has real worlds to conquer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life's What You Make It

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's sexy_right community for the prompts "frequently-broken unbreakable vow" and "command centre". I didn't exactly work in the 'frequently broken' part. :D
> 
> * * *

"Freddie! You bring those dirty dishes up to the sink, ya hear?"

"I hear ya, Ma!" the Warlock yells back. He rolls his eyes and shoves the bowl of pasta aside, ignores the clink as it clatters against the other plates strewn with half-eaten food on the folding card table. He sniffs the air experimentally, wrinkles his nose. Pretty soon he's going to have to dump them all in the plastic bin and lug them up the stairs, and he'd better do it before the old nag gets it into her head to come down and fetch them herself. The last time she came down to "tidy up" he lost a primo smut mag from 1978 and two hours worth of code due to a careless swish of the dust cloth. 

He'll take care of the dishes himself. 

But not tonight. Tonight he has other fish to fry.

Warlock heaves himself up from the plastic lawn chair, trundles over to the easy chair and lowers himself happily into it. He winces at the belaboured squeak of the springs, brushes aside a stray piece of last night's beef stroganoff from the stained and tattered arm. He resolutely ignores the folded newspaper on the edge of the desk, and instead scrolls through his email. He marks half a dozen forum posts to check out later, dashes off a quick and delightfully snarky response to Al at Global Safety reminding him that premium service comes at a premium fucking rate. He snorts when he deletes yet another invitation from Nathan to "game night". Bunch of dweebs sitting around a table pretending to be knights and warriors. He IS the Warlock. He has real worlds to conquer.

He taps his fingers against the keyboard, listens to the plodding footsteps of his mother as she makes her way into the living room above his head. When the Jeopardy theme song starts, he pulls the newspaper over and flicks it open to page seven.

Warlock stares at the photo in the paper for a good ten minutes before finally re-adding Matt onto his IM program. He sits for another twenty minutes, idly digging through a bowl of Chex Mix for the pretzels, before he turns on the webcam and sends a message. He spends the next hour and thirty-seven minutes working steadily on his latest job and determinedly not looking at the messenger icon – which remains steadfastly red anyway. Not that he's looking. At all. 

When the indicator finally flips to green, he ducks his head and puts on his most serious _I'm fucking busy_ face. 

"Heyyy, dude!" Matt says. "It's been forever, man."

Warlock taps out another couple of keystrokes – and fine, they're totally gibberish but so is much of what he's typed for the past hour and an half because he's apparently lame as shit. Good thing Farrell doesn't know that. He finally plasters a peeved expression on his face, looks up. 

Okay, so Matt looks… good. Better than good, maybe. Rested. Hair a little longer, shining in the light coming through the big picture window in McClane's spare room. Skin a little darker, like he's definitely getting some sun. Warlock squints as Matt grabs a T-shirt from a pile of neatly folded clothes next to him, tugs it over his head and smoothes it down. Are those… arm muscles? 

"Earth to Warlock," Matt says. "Dude, how have you been?"

Warlock scowls, leans back in the easy chair. It doesn't matter what Farrell looks like. Or how toned he appears to have gotten over the past few months. He doesn't even look at Matt that way. Much. 

He shakes his head. What matters is this bullshit in the paper. And the fact that he's willing to sacrifice his own security, open up his system – albeit briefly – to talk to the guy, put himself on the line. And that has nothing to do with Farrell's intense brown eyes or newly developed pectoral muscles, which he's definitely not looking at right now. At all. 

"You okay, dude?"

Warlock blinks. "Look man, I know I said we were better off pursuing our own interests, but—"

"Actually, you said _that cop is going to ruin your life_ and then something about the NYPD infiltrating my system with spyware," Matt points out. "Then something about Guantanamo and Area 51 that was so ridiculous I immediately blocked it from my memory. And you ended with some kind of dramatic _I am purging you from my life forever, this is my solemn vow_ bullshit." 

"The specifics don't matter, okay?" Warlock spits out. Farrell always did have a fucking good memory. "I'm contacting you right now to give you a heads up so you can protect your civil rights, all right? Have you even seen this?" 

He leans forward and shoves the paper toward the 'cam, stabs a finger at the photo. 

Matt cocks his head, brow furrowed. "Ohhh," he says, "you got The Times? The one in The Post is much better. They put us on the front page. Better angle, too." He waves a hand in front of his face airily. "Shows off John's nose to its best advantage."

Warlock lets out a puff of air. "And you don't give a shit."

"Why would I?"

"They are manipulating your image, dude! Falsifying data so that more copies of their bullshit papers will sell, which leads to increases in advertising rev—"

"Whoa," Matt interrupts, holding up a hand. "Falsifying?" 

"It's a manip," Warlock says confidently. "C'mon, it's totally a manip, it's obvious. It's a good one, though, I'll give you that. The quality on the matching of the grain is—"

"It's not a manip."

Warlock looks from the paper to Matt's guileless face. He finds that he is totally speechless.

Matt laughs. "It's not a manip, dude. Okay, so we were just driving by, saw the fire. John ran inside while I called 911, right? So John gets the people out – turned out it was a gas leak or something, so no, like, terrorists paragliding onto rooftops or anything, although that totally happened last month and let me tell you, it's the shit they _don't_ put in the papers that will give you grey hairs, man. Because when you see the guy you love dangling off some other guy's legs ten stories up?" Matt shakes his head. "Anyway. So everybody's outside and then the kid starts screaming about her dog – I know, total movie of the week, so cheesy but I swear it's true -- so I run in, grab the pooch, and that's when the roof collapsed and John came in after me, and then the news crew showed up and got the picture." Matt shrugs. "Of us. Kissing."

Warlock's brain basically shut off right around 'the guy you love', and he has to blink and clear his throat to give himself time to let the rest of what Matt said sink in. 

"The dog was fine," Matt adds. "His fur got a little singed, and the fireman – hot, by the way. Not as hot as John but then, _hair_ , not my thing – anyway, he gave the dog some oxygen and—"

"You're actually fucking the—"

"Matt, we talked about this."

Warlock looks past Matt at the sound of the second voice. He doesn't need a mirror to know that his mouth has dropped open, his eyes wide and staring. Out of his peripheral vision he sees Matt swing around in the chair, already talking. 

"I know, I know," Matt says quickly. "Our time, no interruptions. But I haven't talked to the Warlock in forever and—"

"And whose fault is that?"

Warlock would take pains to point out that it wasn't him who decided to live with with a cop and therefore open up everything they do in the search for truth and justice to the scrutiny of the goddamn NYPD, JTTF and probably the fucking Feds, but he can't actually speak at the moment. 

"Yeah, well," Matt only says. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Matt scrub at his chin, even though he can't actually look away from John McClane. Because… holy shit. 

"John?" Matt says. "The... uh… the webcam is on."

Warlock sees John shrug. "So. Freddie's lookin' at you, right?"

"It sorta takes in the whole room."

John glances down at his dick, raises a brow and looks at Matt. And even through the slightly distorted lens of the camera Warlock can see the heat in that gaze, the half-amused, half-predatory expression in those eyes. 

"Huh," John says. "Guess you better turn that off, then, or Cheez Puff's gonna get a hell of a show."

Warlock forces himself to look away from McClane's naked body. From McClane's buff, still damp from the shower, naked body. He swallows dryly and reminds himself that he doesn't even go for the jock type; refuses to allow himself a last glimpse of McClane's cock – no matter how truly impressive it is. 

He forces himself to look at something else, anything else. The tiny silver and brass medal propped up against Matt's speaker. The bars of light on the arm of Matt's plush leather chair. The goddamn fern in a standing pot next to the oversized armchair behind Matt's left shoulder.

"Yeah. So," Matt is saying when he finally focuses on Farrell's face. He's already reaching for the 'cam. "So I've gotta—"

"Yeah," Warlock manages to spit out. "I know what you've gotta."

Matt's face splits into a wide grin. "I'm a lucky guy," he says just before the screen goes dark.

Warlock stares at the blank screen for a good thirty seconds before he leans back in his chair. The old springs protest again under his weight, the shifting of his body making the dust motes dance and the musty, putrid scent sting his nostrils. He glances around at the room, scrubs a hand wearily over his overgrown beard. Takes in the battered and rusty sink, the dull grey concrete, the wall of blinking monitors with their scrolling codes and endless search strings. The monotonous hum of electronic life. 

His fortress. His Batcave. His fucking Command Centre.

He shoves himself out of the chair, nearly trips over a pile of dirty laundry on the floor. Makes his way to the plastic tub and the dishes littering the table. Plates first, then he'll tackle the laundry. Then...

Then maybe he'll dig Nathan's email out of his delete bin. He could free up a night for a little Wizards and Warriors.


End file.
